Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPADVX5P45W3Y0TKN5NBTA

Rain pelted Soho with relentless force, each droplet a whisper of urgency against stone and steel. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots slapped into puddles, water splashing up to soak her trouser legs. Her sharp jaw was set in grim determination as her eyes tracked the figure sprinting ahead through the slick streets. The chase had begun in Covent Garden, but it had wound through alleys and busy thoroughfares, now leading them toward the River Thames. The suspect darted sideways, colliding with a pedestrian who spun and cursed but barely lost stride. Quinn’s conditioned muscles fired, propelling her forward with relentless intent. She clocked the scar running along the man's left forearm—Tomás Herrera. He was known in certain circles, though his affiliations were murky. Tonight, all that mattered was capturing him. Herrera’s curly dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his olive skin glistening with rain. She saw the flash of the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck just before he veered towards The Raven’s Nest, the dimly lit bar recognizable by its distinctive green neon sign. Quinn slowed as she neared the bar. She saw him slip inside. The door swung shut, the neon sign casting eerie glows onto the puddles around her feet. Her senses, honed by years on the force, screamed that walking into Silas' domain unprepared would be a grave misstep. Her worn leather watch ticked again as she checked the time; every second counted. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped into the Nest. The scent of stale beer and old wood mingled with a faint smokiness that seemed to cling to the walls. Maps aged by decades, maybe centuries, covered the walls alongside black-and-white photographs that bore silent witness to countless stories. Patrons filled the space, murmuring conversations blending into a low hum. A few heads turned her way—some curious, some wary. Behind the polished wooden bar, Silas nodded almost imperceptibly at her, his eyes sharp and knowing. She returned the nod but kept her gaze sweeping the room. Her eyes found Herrera at the edge of the bar. His wet clothes clung to him, making him seem smaller, but the tension in his posture was palpable. He spoke furtively to the bartender, then dropped something—a small, bone-like token—into the man’s palm. The bartender palmed the token and gave a curt nod, his eyes darting toward a bookshelf in the far corner. With a subtle motion, he flicked his wrist, and Herrera vanished behind the shelves. Quinn’s instincts screamed at her. Allow him to disappear, or pursue into a world not hers but ripe with danger? Her partner DS Morris’ face flashed in her mind, the way he vanished three years ago, leaving an insatiable need for answers swirling within her. Tonight could be a step toward those answers. She crossed the room, aware of every set of eyes on her. At the bookshelf, she ran her fingers along the dusty spines of old, forgotten tomes until she found the hidden latch. She heard the faint click, felt the grip of concealed machinery, and the bookshelf swung open with a sigh of wood. Cool, damp air greeted her as she stepped inside, the city’s night sounds muffling as the door swung shut behind her. Torchlight flickered, casting distorted shadows along narrow stone steps leading down. Each step echoed in the confined space, a drumbeat in her ears that seemed all too final. At the bottom, she found herself in a tunnel, the weight of London above pressing down as though she were walking through history itself. The tunnel came alive with the buzz of the Veil Market—merchants hawking enchanted goods, alchemists whispering of forbidden tinctures, and shadows where deals were made with little regard for law. Quinn advanced, her senses on high alert. The crowd was dense, faces obscured by hoods and masks, each step a threat and a clue. Her eyes scanned every face, every stall, searching for the man who was her quarry. The aroma of incense and exotic spices mixed with damp stone and moss, making every breath feel heavy. Then she saw him. Herrera stood at a vendor's stall, exchanging hurried words. She could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers played with the edge of his jacket pocket. He hadn’t seen her yet. Quinn moved silently through the throng, gliding past supernatural oddities in jars and forbidden tomes bound with ancient glyphs. Her focus was singular. But as she neared him, a robed figure stepped into her path, a pale hand emerging from the sleeve to press a bone token into her palm. "You seek truth," the figure’s voice rasped, eyes like pools of ink locking onto hers. Quinn’s jaw tightened. "I seek a man." The figure smiled, a slow, knowing grin. "Truths often wear human faces." Frustrated, she stepped around the figure and advanced on Herrera. The moment he saw her, his eyes widened, and he bolted. She moved with military precision, her training kicking in, and pursued him deeper into the labyrinthine market. He twisted, making sharp turns, cutting through narrow alleys of stalls and stands. Merchants shouted in protest, but Quinn stayed on his heels, closing the gap with every stride. Finally, he took a wrong turn—an alley that dead-ended in a stone wall. Herrera spun to face her, chest heaving, the scar on his arm a vivid reminder of past violence. She approached him slowly, hand moving to her belt, ready for whatever trick he might pull next. "Give it up, Herrera," she called, voice steady. His eyes darted around, calculating, searching for an escape. She could almost see the gears turning in his head. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. He held it up, the liquid inside glowing faintly. "The answers you seek are here," he said, voice tinged with a blend of defiance and defeat. Quinn’s eyes locked onto the vial. "I'm not here for riddles. I'm taking you in." Herrera shook his head. "This... this can lead you to him. To Morris." Her breath caught—a dangerous slip she quickly masked. "What do you know about Morris?" "More than you think." He glanced at the vial again. "But only if you let me go." The stalemate hung between them, thick as the London fog outside. Morris' ghost loomed over every decision she made. The urge to lunge forward, to reclaim some sort of justice, gnawed at the edges of her reason. But the promise of answers—of finally understanding what happened all those years ago—was a powerful temptation. With a determined effort, she straightened. "This isn’t a negotiation." But even as she spoke, she knew the choice wasn't simple. In this underworld, with the weight of the Veil Market’s secrets surrounding them, sometimes the law had to bend. Her eyes narrowed as she made her decision. "Give me the vial," she demanded, stepping closer. "And then we'll talk." Herrera's eyes flickered with something unreadable—a mixture of relief and trepidation. He handed over the vial, fingers brushing against hers momentarily. The liquid inside seemed almost alive, glowing brighter as it passed to her. Quinn pocketed the vial. She’d made a compromise tonight, chasing the ghost of her past, but it brought her one step closer to the truth. As she led Herrera back through the twisting pathways of the Veil Market, she couldn’t help but feel the lurking shadows tighten around her, a reminder that some pursuits came at a steep price.